


Moonlight Bay

by LogicIsGod327



Series: Drenched in Moonlight [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everyone is supernatural and I am not sorry, Faerie!Scott, Ghost!Isaac, I swear I did it better than Stephanie Meyer, M/M, The Hales are themselves, The painfully obvious twilight parody, Vampire!Argents, Warning: Kate Argent, Witch!Lydia, Wow I am a dick to my characters, and not dead, complete with a love triangle, oblivious!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7682398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicIsGod327/pseuds/LogicIsGod327
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In northern Oregon, there rests a small bay that is flanked by rocky cliffs on either side, until, at the innermost part of the bay, these cliffs give to a small coastal plain that is cupped by mountains. The Nehalem River comes to its end in this bay, with two waterfalls. The first, at nearly three hundred feet high, is one of the tallest in the state, and marks the beginning of the tame section of river that runs through the town. The second, a mere forty feet, spills into the Pacific Ocean.</p><p>This bay was discovered by an expedition in the night hours of a full moon in 1817. The moonlight glittered off of the bay, and reflected on the cliffs as a dancing pattern similar to the lights of a pool on the walls. So, the expedition named the place Moonlight Bay. In 1832, the first settlers arrived, and named their new settlement Moonlight Falls.</p><p>It is this small Oregon town that Stiles Stilinski arrives to on a crisp March morning.</p><p>+</p><p>How many times had Derek told him not to wander the woods? How many warnings of bears and coyotes and other animals had he gifted upon Stiles? How many times had Stiles really been listening? Well, now he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I'll level with you, dear reader. This was a dare to write a crack fic. I can't write crack for shit. So, instead, I decided to spin off into a serious work. I hope you enjoy, I know I did, a lot more than I expected.

**March**

In northern Oregon, there rests a small bay that is flanked by rocky cliffs on either side, until, at the innermost part of the bay, these cliffs give to a small coastal plain that is cupped by mountains. The Nehalem River comes to its end in this bay, with two waterfalls. The first, at nearly three hundred feet high, is one of the tallest in the state, and marks the beginning of the tame section of river that runs through the town. The second, a mere forty feet, spills into the Pacific Ocean.

This bay was discovered by an expedition in the night hours of a full moon in 1817. The moonlight glittered off of the bay, and reflected on the cliffs as a dancing pattern similar to the lights of a pool on the walls. So, the expedition named the place Moonlight Bay. In 1832, the first settlers arrived, and named their new settlement Moonlight Falls.

It is this small Oregon town that Stiles Stilinski arrives to on a crisp March morning. His father, Sheriff John Stilinski of Tillamook County, picks him up from Portland International Airport with little fanfare, just a hug, and “You look good, kid.” and the promise of a surprise waiting at home. Stiles figures it’s something simple, a new paintjob in the bedroom he’d inhabited as a child during summers with his father, or something to the effect. He certainly doesn’t expect what awaits him. A pale blue Jeep, two doors, with an open top, and a tarp to cover it resting in the back.

“You’re kidding me, Dad!” Stiles is jubilant at the sight of the vehicle.

John shakes his head with a grin. “Nope, all yours. Got it dirt cheap off of Talia Hale. Now, there’s some issues her husband was talking about, something about the cam shaft or what, but she told me it’s pretty reliable. Should suit you fine for getting to and from school and going out with friends.”

Stiles snorts derisively. “Friends, yeah right.”

“Hey, have some hope. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of friends, maybe even a boyfriend or girlfriend.”

Without responding, Stiles goes up to the bedroom he’d spent summers in. It’s got a deep, royal blue paintjob, the same since he was an infant, when his mother and father had been together. Eventually, the young couple reached a mutual decision that marriage wasn’t the best for them. Claudia Stilinski had taken her young son down the coast to Beacon Hills, California, and raised him there until sixteen, when he finally decided to permit her the freedom she desired.

As much as she loved her son, Claudia was an artist, and she’d sacrificed her career to raise him alone, and Stiles decided that, when one of her pieces was picked up by a client in New York who wanted more of the same, it was time he lived with his father and permitted Claudia to go work on her career again. John had been more than amicable with the suggestion, having only seen his son for two weeks in the summer since the age of 4. It isn’t said, but, as much as he pretends to be fine, John can sometimes get lonely.

There’s a new desk and computer chair in the room, as well as a bookcase and a new bed, a double with a headboard that has storage cubbies. A flatscreen occupies one wall, and a cable box and Xbox. It’s a proper space for a teenage boy, and Stiles is impressed. He didn’t expect his dad was willing to go this far out of his way to make him comfortable.

“Well… I will leave you to it. Holler if you need anything, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Stiles replies.

An hour or so later, as Stiles wanders around his father’s backyard, he decides to meander to the woods out back. He walks for about a half an hour, passing through trees and shrubbery, tripping over every damn root in the forest, until, the woods suddenly clear. It’s shocking, he hadn’t even seen it through the dense rows of pine and spruce, but, here he is, in a clearing.

The lawn is painstakingly maintained, grass trimmed short. Stiles’ eyes follow upwards towards the center of the clearing, where he sees a house. In the middle of the woods. It’s not too big, two stories high, with an entire half of the roof covered in solar panels. There are real shutters on the windows, and, under almost every window there is a flower box, and a wraparound porch is filled with ferns and ficuses and all manner of greenery. There’s an enormous garden, split between beautiful flowers that Stiles can’t even begin to name, and more fresh fruits and vegetables than he’s ever seen in one garden.

A figure is bent over in the garden, in cargo shorts and a tee shirt. Upon closer inspection, Stiles sees the figure is male, a boy about his age. “Uh, hi!” He calls.

The boy turns, to reveal tanned skin and an easy grin, his eyes half masked by a flop of black hair, but they still sparkle with some unnameable energy. “Hey!” The boy calls back.

“I’m, uh, Stiles. I was just wandering around and I found this place.” He offers his hand.

The boy offers his own, dirt-stained hand. “I’m Scott. I haven’t seen you in school, you new?”

Crap. Small town America, everyone knows everyone and everyone knows who’s new. “Yeah, my dad’s the sheriff.”

Scott raises his eyebrows. “You’re Sheriff Stilinski’s kid?”

“Yep.” He pops the ‘P’.

“He’s been talking about you, but he told Mom your name was Genim.” Scott says.

Stiles groans. Leave it to Dad to reveal his first name against his wishes. “I prefer Stiles.” He says, darkly.

  
“Okay, okay.” The other teen holds his hands up in surrender. “Your dad and my mom are pretty good friends, he’s down here for dinner now and then. I’m sure he planned to introduce us soon enough.”

Sure enough, as Stiles goes to reply, his phone begins playing the _Law and Order_ theme music. “Hey, Dad. No, I’m not out on the town, I just went for a hike in the woods. Yeah, I’m with Scott…” He looks to him, clearly asking for a last name.

“McCall.” He offers helpfully.

“McCall. Yeah, he said you were planning on it. We’re having dinner here tonight? Oh, okay. I guess, if he and his mom don’t mind, I’ll just stay here. Yeah, uh-huh. Yep, see you then.” He presses the end button and puts the iPhone back in his pocket. “So, you gonna introduce me to your mom?”

“Follow me, dude.”

The inside of the house is much the same as the outside. There’s a very woodlands cottage feel to it, the way plants occupy every corner and almost every table, the smell of various flowers permeating the building. The furniture is mostly rustic, spare a large flatscreen TV and the required technology. The green couch seems like something in his great-grandmother’s home, with its ruffled skirt around the bottom. A set of tan wooden stairs lead to the second floor, and a doorway leads to the kitchen.

Inside, even more flowers and plants, and a woman stands, her back to them, working at a counter. She turns, and Stiles is brought up short. She’s beautiful, in the most ornate way. Her hair is the same color as Scott’s, but curlier, and it’s threaded with flowers. Not just one or two here and there, but entire strips of vines with flowers run through from her crown to where her hair ends, brushing her middle back. Her eyes, the same woodsy brown as Scott’s, sparkle with that same energy, and Stiles feels way in over his head.

“You must be Genim.” She says, walking towards him. Forgoing a handshake, she pulls the shell shocked boy into a hug. “I’m Melissa, it’s good to finally meet you.” She smells like the house, like flowers.

“He prefers Stiles, Ma.” Scott interjects.

“Oh, my apologies, Stiles.” Melissa corrects herself.

Stiles swallows. “It’s fine, Mrs. McCall.” He soothes her.

“Please, call me Melissa.” She smiles gently. “Now, why don’t you two play video games or something, I have dinner to cook. I hope you like steak, Stiles.”

“Love it.” He gives an easy grin.

Surprise, surprise, more plants in Scott’s room. Stiles voices this observation, to which Scott chuckles. “Yeah, we’re big on nature. Since we can’t live out there in it, we bring as much of it as we can in here.”

Stiles shrugs. He can respect that. Besides, the house smells nice, and it’s certainly pretty. From Scott’s window, he can see where Melissa’s Tesla is parked outside, on a dirt driveway that leads out into the woods. Scott pops in Battlefield 4, and Stiles finally shakes the odd feeling that Melissa’s bright eyes gave him as he falls into the familiarity of team deathmatch. An hour or so later, John’s cruiser pulls into the McCall driveway, and Melissa calls to the boys that dinner is ready. The two shrug, finishing off their match, and head downstairs.

+

Monday is Stiles’ first day at Moonlight Falls Academy. Upon seeing the three story building with attached gym, it really hits him how _small_ Moonlight Falls actually is. In Beacon Hills, his class alone was six hundred kids, and the Moonlight Falls Unified School District has that many students in the enrolled. The entire K-12 curriculum is housed in one building, with the elementary school on the first floor, the middle school on the second, and the high school on the third, with a shared library, cafeteria and gymnasium.

Instantly, as he meanders to his locker, there are looks and grins and welcoming cries of “Hey, new kid! Welcome!” He supposes that it’s to make him feel easier, more at home. Instead, it makes him feel like he’s under a microscope. His first class of the day is chemistry. Fabulous. Back in Beacon Hills, he hated chemistry, and he imagines the same will be true in Moonlight Falls. He gives a small sigh of relief as he sees Scott, sitting alone at a lab table. The other boy gives an excited wave and his standard lopsided puppy grin, and Stiles easily sits next to him.

“Ah, welcome Mr…” The teacher trails, perplexed at the name.

“Stiles.” He quickly interjects. “Just call me Stiles, Mr. Harris.” Stiles says, reading off of his schedule.

“Stiles Stilinski, everyone. Make him welcome.” Harris flops, voice already bored.

There’s a redhead with witchy green eyes, staring at him intensely. “Who’s that girl?” Stiles asks.

“Lydia Martin, she’s the smartest girl in the school, and she is making eyes at you, dude.” Scott lightly shoves him in jest.

“Nah, man. Out of my league, and not my type.”

Scott snorts. “Lydia doesn’t have a league. She’s playing a whole different sport than everyone else, so why not give it a shot?”

“Maybe some other time, Scotty.”

+

Lydia walks into the vet’s office with little fanfare, just sets her bag down and gets ready to work. Across from her, Alan Deaton, her boss, doesn’t look up as he speaks. “There’s something preying on you.”

“A new boy came to the school, today. He’s the Sheriff’s son, and there’s something about him. I can’t quite put my tongue on it.”

At that, Deaton looks up. “You think he’s Gifted?”

“No, no. I would be able to tell. It’s something else…” She shakes her head.

Deaton stands, and walks over to his protegé. “Lydia, in our line of work, particularly the training phase, it’s very easy to become so absorbed in learning that we forget baser parts of ourselves. Maybe you’re just attracted to him?” He asks, careful in his words.

“No, Deaton.” She gives him a baleful look. “He’s not an unattractive boy, but, it’s not attraction. It’s something, though.”

“Well, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Lydia smiles at her instructor. “Thank you. Now, let’s get to work, shall we?”

+

Stiles pulls into the driveway of his dad’s house to see a low, black Camaro parked next to where he usually does. Inside, a statuesque woman sits at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in her hand, as she talks with his father.

The woman is clearly middle aged, but still attractive. Her dark hair falls straight to settle on her shoulders, and she’s got a smatter of freckles across her tanned skin. She has brown eyes, different than Scott’s or Melissa’s. Rather than being the color of the forest, they remind Stiles more of freshly dug earth, deeper, richer.

“Stiles Stilinski.” She says, with a voice that makes Stiles want to bare his throat in submission. Like Melissa, she forgoes a handshake and goes straight for the hug. “I’m Talia Hale, do you remember me?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, uh… It’s been a long time, ma’am.”

“Your boy has excellent manners, John.” Talia calls to his father.

Normally, Stiles would be irate at being referred to like he wasn’t there, but, instead, the praise fills him with a resounding happiness. He feels like he’s done good, and he genuinely wants to please Talia as best as he can.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hale.” Stiles says, voice still humble.

She laughs, a loud, joyous sound. “Please, call me Talia. I am way too young for ‘Mrs. Hale’.”

“Yes, Talia.” He breathes out.

“Are you boys ready to go?” She asks, heading towards the front door.

Stiles turns in confusion to his father. “Do you ever cook for yourself or is it just a rotating cycle of friends feeding you?” He asks, only half-joking.

The Sheriff looks offended. “I can cook! Besides, we eat at other people’s houses because you arrived in town! Everyone wants to get to know you.”

“Not much to know, Dad.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Now, come on.” Talia speaks from where she leans in their doorway.

+

Dinner with the Hales is an affair Stiles will never forget. Eating with Scott and Melissa was a close knit, quiet thing that they all enjoyed immensely. The Hales, while still enjoyable, are something else entirely.

It’s a solid fifteen minute drive from the small house near the heart of town, across the river, to a brick and white siding mansion in an enormous clearing. It’s a tall, three story estate complete with a freaking gate at the driveway, which suddenly transitions from dirt to freshly laid asphalt in a smooth little bump. Parking behind Talia’s Camaro, she waves the two to follow her, going towards the back kitchen, through a set of sliding glass doors. Instantly, Stiles is assaulted by a racket of children, and by the smell of spaghetti sauce.

“Stiles, come meet everyone.” Talia beckons from behind a granite-topped island.

She leads them through to a room filled with couches, where there are way too many people for one house. At least ten, possibly more. There’s just so many, and they all look alike. A boy his age sits on one couch, and Stiles recognizes him as one of the five other people in his AP English class. Immediately, at the comfort of a familiar face, he latches on.

“Hey, you’re Derek, right?” He asks.

The boy, who has eyes that make Stiles’ head spin, nods, with an easy grin. Stiles, on the other hand, really needs to sit down. Talia is going on, introducing everyone. There’s the three eldest kids, Laura, who’s a senior, his fellow sophomore Derek, and freshman Cora. The younger two are Kita, who is in sixth grade, and Alexander, who is three. Alexander’s parents are Peter and Gwen, and Kita’s mother is Ritsa. The last man out is Derek’s dad and Talia’s husband, Evan.

Dinner is a fascinating display that suddenly defines the phrase ‘ _coordinated chaos’_ for Stiles, once and for all. So many voice carrying, chattering, asking for rolls and more spaghetti, kids vying for attention from various adults, and all the while, Stiles and Derek sit next to each other, smiling and bumping shoulders, and Stiles swears they’re flirting, the sly grins and knowing smirks.

Afterwords, it’s Derek’s unfortunate luck to be on dish duty, which isn’t too terrible. Since Cora’s attempt at washing the pots and pans, there has been a universal ban on children washing the cookware enacted in the Hale house. Instead, Derek is left with twelve sets of plates, cups, bowls, and silverware. Stiles eagerly volunteers to assist, and pays no mind to the knowing look Laura gives him as he leaves the dining room.

“So…” Stiles trails, uncertain as to what to say, for once.

“So.” Derek replies, with just the tiniest smile. Instantly, both boys bust out laughing.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Stiles tries again. “Do you wanna hang out sometime besides a massive family dinner?” He asks.

“Sure.” Derek gives him another tiny smile.

**+**

**April**

“Stupid, piece of shit Jeep! Unreliable motherfucker!” Stiles swears in anger as Roscoe decides to die in the middle of the woods.

He manages to pull him to the roadside, but he’s still halfway between the Hale house and the bridge crossing the Nehalem back into town. It’s gotta be a two hour walk, and his cellphone is, of course, fucking _dead_. He starts walking, and, maybe five minutes later, he’s saved. A humble driveway he’s never noticed before comes into view, and Stiles can see the low one story colonial from the road. He walks up the gravel path to the house, and knocks on the door.

“Hello?” He asks, peering through the window in the door. There’s a light on in the kitchen, but no cars outside the house. He hopes to God there’s someone home.

Just as he seems prepared to give up, a curly haired man, perhaps twenty years old, comes into view, and opens the door. He’s pale, with searching silver eyes and a square jaw. “Can I help you?” He asks, with a small and friendly smile.

“Dude, you have no idea how much time you just saved me. Look, my car broke down just near your driveway, I was wondering if you had a phone I could use to call my dad?” Stiles asks, immensely relieved.

The man smiles wider, and motions to follow. The interior of the house is sparsely decorated, few pictures on the wall, but there’s a television on the stand, and the what sounds like a pretty intense gaming session carries up from the hallway. “Oh, uh, I’m Camden, by the way. Camden Lahey.” He says, offering a hand.

It’s cold as ice, and Stiles flinches at the contact, even as he speaks. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Good to meet you, Stiles.”

“You too, man.”

Camden hands him a cordless phone off the charger, and retreats to the room where the sounds digital gunfire are echoing from. The Sheriff picks up on the second ring.

‘ _Hello?’_ He asks.

“Hey, Dad. Problem, I’m kinda broken down on Valley View Drive. I’m with some guys, one of them is named Camden, it’s his place.”

‘ _It’ll be about an hour, buddy. Everyone got sent out to help upriver, guess there was a robbery is Charter’s Mill. I’m about to leave for it myself.’_ John has a clear apology in his voice.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. If these guys don’t want me here, I’ll just start walking towards town.”

John sighs. ‘ _Sorry, son.’_

“It’s fine, Dad. Be safe, okay?”

‘ _Yep, will do. I’ll see you for dinner, okay?’_

“Yeah. Bye, Dad.”

Just then, Camden comes back into the room, trailed by a younger clone of himself. “Stiles, this is my little brother, Isaac.”

Isaac’s hand, just like Camden’s, is bitterly cold. The teen gives him an easy grin and leans back in a kitchen chair.

“Hey, how come I haven’t seen you in school?” Stiles asks, confused. Isaac’s certainly the type to stand out.

“I don’t go to Moonlight Secondary.” The boy responds, easily.

Stiles gives him a look. “It’s Moonlight Academy, dude.”

“Shit, sorry. Moonlight Academy, yeah, I do online school.”

Stiles shrugs. “My dad says it’s gonna be another hour. I can clear out, if you want. I don’t mind walking.” He really does mind walking, but he won’t say that. What would Talia think?

Why the fuck did that thought run through his head? Thankfully, Camden breaks his train of thought before he can delve into the inner machinations of his mind. “We don’t mind. You want a soda?” He asks, easy enough.

“Coke, if you have it.”

In response, a can of the stuff comes flying towards Stiles' head, which he fumbles with for a moment, nearly falling from the chair he’s seated in, and Isaac snickers behind his back. Moments later, Isaac invites him back to the gaming room, where he promptly challenges Stiles to a 1v1 deathmatch. It’s easy falling into a camaraderie with Isaac, and Camden seems fine third-wheeling, working away at his iPad, dismissing Stiles’ invite to play with “Ignore me, I’m a ghost.”

Twelve rounds later, there’s a knocking on the door of the house, and the Sheriff is standing somewhat awkwardly on the Laheys’ front porch. Camden answers the door, and calls for Stiles from the den.

“Your son seems to have made pretty good friends with my little brother.” He says, conversationally.

John blinks for a moment. “Is that so?” He asks, clearly a little surprised.

“Yes, sir. He plays a mean round of Call of Duty.” Isaac speaks as he exits the game room, trailed by Stiles, who waves briefly to his dad. “You got my Steam account, dude?”

“Yep, got it. Hey, thanks for letting me chill with you guys. I imagine you didn’t plan on a random stranger crashing your day.” He says, sincere in his thanks.

Camden and Isaac are nonplussed. “No biggie, we don’t get many people around here, anyway. You’re more than welcome again.” The elder Lahey says.

“Thank you, really. It’s a long walk back to town, and there’s things in these woods I don’t trust.” The Sheriff says.

“Not a problem, Sheriff. He’s a good kid.” Isaac plops down on the couch, clicking on the TV.

Stiles gives a wave to the brothers as he leaves, with a promise to IM Isaac over Steam.

Walking down the driveway to his cruiser, the Sheriff speaks. “I got your Jeep towed, it’ll be a couple of days in the shop, and I called Melissa, she’s got no problem driving you and Scott to school until it’s fixed. And, uh, son?” He asks, making Stiles turn to face him. “Even if it’s not the best circumstances, I’m glad you’re making friends.”

“Yeah, Dad. They’re pretty cool guys. Now, what’s for dinner?”

+

“Jesus Herbert Walker Christ, Dad!” Stiles yells, seeing yet another oven meal defrosting on the counter. “Do you have any idea how bad these things are for you?!” He demands, turning over the box to reveal an ungodly amount of calories.

“It’s what’s available, son. What do you want from me?” John asks.

“When’s the last time you had your cholesterol checked?” Stiles is plainly irate.

The Sheriff looks uneasy, rubbing the back of his neck as he mutters a word that is suspiciously close to _‘Never’_.

Stiles scoffs in disbelief. “That’s it. I want a hundred bucks from your check every week, I’m shopping in this house now. And _you_ , mister, are getting an appointment with your doctor to check your cholesterol.”

“Now, hold on, son. I don’t need to be provided for!” His father objects.

“Dad, you’re not being provided for, it’s not like I’m gonna be doing everything, I’ll just be shopping.”

John sighs. “Fine.”

“Get ready for your last Stouffer’s dinner for a while, Dad.”

**+**

“What in Hell is _that_?” John raises a skeptical eyebrow at the grilled chicken resting on his plate.

Stiles sets his own piece of chicken down on the table and sanguinely responds. “Grilled chicken with cajun seasoning on a bed of kale.”

“Stiles, I said I’d let you grocery shop, but I didn’t mean you could completely flip my diet.” He grouches.

“Don’t think I didn’t see your results, or your family history. You’re gonna tank over of a heart attack at this rate.” Stiles expresses genuine concern to his father.

Baffled, the Sheriff looks at his son. “How did you know my family history?”

Without looking up from where he is cutting his chicken, Stiles replies. “I’m a research oriented boy, pops.”

“Dammit, kid.” The older man mutters, but begins cutting his chicken anyway.

**+**

It's just past five in the morning when Stiles meanders down from Derek's room in the Hale house to the kitchen, eagerly smelling out coffee. Surprisingly, Laura sits at the table, the morning sun blasting into the room and illuminating the book she reads.

“Morning.” Stiles says, voice sleep-thick.

With a wry grin, she responds. “Didn’t think you did mornings, Stilinski.”

“I usually don’t, but I could smell the coffee, and Derek rolled on me in his sleep.”

Wordlessly, she rises and pours him a glass of the stuff. “Colombian whole bean coffee, imported.”

Stiles moans like he’s having an orgasm at the first sip. “I’m going to offer this coffee my dowry for its hand in marriage. Seriously, I think I’m in love.”

At that remark, Laura snorts, rather loudly.

“What?!” He demands, giving her a side eye.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Stiles shakes his head, clearly not believing her. “What is it, Laura?”

“Nothing! Now, tell me, did you have fun with Derek last night? I heard you two up at one cursing at whatever game you were playing.”

Stiles shakes his head, clearly bitter. “It was a good time, spare those damn hackers in _Minecraft_.”

“Is that what that was? I thought _Minecraft_ was for twelve year olds.”

“Hey, fuck you! _Minecraft_ is a wonderful time!” He defends his love of blocks.

Laura shakes her head this time, bemused rather than bitter. “Whatever, Stiles.”

Derek comes down the stairs at that moment, hair sticking up every which way and other, sweatpants low enough and shirt high enough that his happy trail is visible, and Stiles’ mouth goes dry. It’s a sexier sight than it should be, especially at five in the morning.

“Hey, the bed was cold.” Derek mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

At that, Laura gives Stiles a pointed look, and Stiles just blushes and finds something very interesting in his coffee. Derek is too sleep-drunk to be able to remark on the exchange, and the day gets going.

**+**

Aiden Argent is perhaps six two, broad shouldered and pale, paler than Stiles by a mile and a half. He has cropped hair so brown it’s nearly black, and eyes the color of honey. He’s a hulking contrast to his fraternal twin sister, Allison.

Allison Argent is petite, barely scraping the top side of five foot, and, even in her limited size, curvaceous. She’s got the same pale skin and dark hair, though her eyes are nearly black. The two are seldom apart, except when Allison, Lydia and a girl named Erica Reyes sit together at lunch and Aiden joins his male friends. Besides that, they have nearly identical schedules, spare when Allison goes to cello lessons and Aiden sings in chorus.

To some students, they’re derisively known as Adonis and Aphrodite. Allison has an incredible skill at her cello, unmatched by any in Oregon, and arguably the entire western side of the Mississippi, and Aiden’s tenor voice has a resonance that can only be described as godly. They’re both beautiful, and graceful beyond measure. And, to top it off, they’re both so nice it’s nearly unbearable. Arguably perfect, spare the fact that when they step into the sun their pale skin reflects so much light it’s rather painful to look at them.

For some reason, Aiden has taken to sitting next to Stiles in math, and chats easily with him, and, maybe, if Stiles is honest and peers into seemingly innocent phrases enough, flirts with him. It’s hard to imagine Aiden Argent expressing any interest in him. Granted, he knows his self esteem is utter shit, but still. Aiden Argent is practically a god among teenagers, infinitely graceful, endlessly pleasant. Stiles feels like nothing next to him, and he reckons Aiden knows it. The boy, atop all of it, is intuitive.

It leaves Stiles conflicted. He knows he and Derek are flirting, dancing around each other in all the right ways that only teenagers can, and, rationally, he sees a light at the end of the tunnel, full of warm beds and warmer bodies, but Aiden? What he’s doing with him is a total mystery. Aiden, like Isaac and Camden, is as cold as ice. When he gets close to Stiles, he smells of spearmint, and his topaz eyes are nearly hypnotizing. It’s that scent, spearmint, that fills Stiles’ mind as he parks his jeep in the long driveway of the Argent’s ancestral manor.

There are other cars there, Lydia Martin’s among them. Curiously enough, she and Stiles, despite their odd first encounter, have become somewhat good friends. The label of ‘ _best friend’_ , however, belongs solely to Scott, who is also in attendance at Allison Argent’s sleepover. The smaller Argent twin had gathered a group of friends together, and Aiden had, in turn, invited his own. It quickly became a large affair, taking a life of its own.

The Argent manor is a dark building with many high windows, stretching to the top and then curving gently over, and it comes with its own coach gate over the front door. From outside, Stiles can peer into one of the two wings of the house and see all the others, at an indoor pool filled with splashes. Scott trails behind him, their bags slung over their shoulders. Aiden had told them to let themselves in, so they do.

The inside of the manor is filled with deep red wood-paneled walls, covered in classical paintings. At the landing of a stairway that splits to each wing is a painting, larger than all the rest, of a man in a classical tuxedo. He has burgundy eyes and sandy brown hair, just a hint of salt and pepper to him. Clean shaven, he stares off somewhat morosely. Stiles and Scott are interrupted in their inspection by the sound of a throat clearing.

The two boys turn to see a woman in a floor length white silk gown leaning against a doorway. She’s a carbon copy of Allison, except her eyes are baby blue and the deep red hair on her head is cropped short. She flashes a wide grin, and there’s really no other way to describe the fluidity of her motion other than a glide. Holding a pale delicate hand out, she shakes Stiles and Scott’s hands.

“I’m Victoria, Aiden and Allison’s mother. You must Stiles and Scott, right? You’re the last two we’re expecting.” Victoria Argent speaks with a mellow alto, and her grip is fierce, especially for such a small woman.

“It’s v- very good to meet you, ma’am.” Scott manages to stutter out.

“You as well, Scott.”

Stiles is left wondering how she knew their names, but she’s already swishing ahead, down a corridor of more red walls and paintings, until she reaches a door at the end of the hall, and opens one to the left of it.

“You can change in here and then head into the pool area. Have fun, boys. I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.” And just like, she’s gone, whisking herself off into the dark-lit hall. They quickly change in the bathroom and head through a separate door leading to the pool. The moment they clear open the door, they’re assaulted by light and noise, the echoing sounds of laughter and splashing, and the well lit pool area comes into full view.

“Hey, guys! You made it!” Allison is darting out of the water, to wrap her arms around each of the boys’ necks in excitement. She’s much warmer than usual, a blessed sign that the pool is heated.

“Yeah, we did.” Scott manages to croak out from where he’s been stunned by Allison’s sudden embrace.

Stiles, however, is left agape at the sight of Aiden in nothing but a pair of tight blue swimming trunks. He’s uniform in his paleness, no tan lines or anything, and, even drenched in water, he looks sculpted from marble, a pale set of abs to die for contrasted only by the slightest hint of a dark hair running into his swimsuit. Stiles’ mouth is dry and his shorts are risking becoming tight, especially at the joyous smile Aiden gives when he catches sight of Stiles.

“Hi!” He calls from across the large room, only seconds later to be swamped by a wave caused by Vernon Boyd jumping into the pool.

Instantly, Stiles is sprinting across the room and does a cannonball into water nearly as warm as a bathtub. He brings himself up for air, and isn’t surprised that the water is so clean in the pool that chlorine isn’t necessary. He swims over to Aiden, who wraps an arm around his shoulders in a bro-hug that lingers a bit longer than appropriate.

“Hi, man.” Stiles grins up at the pale teen.

Scott jumps in after a moment of chatting with Allison, followed closely by her. From there, the night is a wild ride of food, music, dancing, Aiden’s beautiful singing, and movies. Somewhere around midnight, Stiles, tired and sated on good food and good times, wanders back into the atrium of the manor, and is surprised to find he isn’t alone. In his half-exhausted state, Stiles thinks the man from the painting on the landing come to life, but there are subtle differences.

The suit Mr. Argent wears is much more modern, and he has the slightest bit of stubble. The faces are nearly identical, but the man before him is slightly younger, and, in the warm, rich lighting of the room, his green eyes are so pale they near pastel levels.

“Mr. Stilinski, correct?” He says, holding out one pale hand.

“Stiles, please.”

“I’m Chris.” The Argent patriarch responds.

Stiles looks up to the painting on the landing, still shocked. The resemblance is uncanny, almost disturbing. He voices this opinion, and Chris gives a wry chuckle in response. “I suppose there is. His name was Christoff Argent.” The name comes out in a heavy French accent. “Would you like to know the story behind the painting?”

The younger man eagerly nods.

Chris gestures to a camel backed sofa against one wall, and they sit. “In 1831, the Argent family was a massive clan in Paris, France. They decided to try their luck in the new Oregon Country, still seven years out from the foraging of the Oregon Trail. By 1834, Moonlight Falls was a prosperous and growing community, mostly making its living off of fishing and commerce. Then, tragedy struck.” Chris paused for what Stiles suspected was dramatic effect.

“In 1847, an outbreak of dysentery struck the town, nearly half of its occupants died. He,” Chris pointed to the portrait over the stairs. “Was the only survivor, along with his wife. Thankfully, they were young enough to refound the family. After that, it was a long, long line of only sons, until, finally, I married Victoria, and we had Allison and Aiden. She’s the first girl born in this family in almost two hundred years.”

Stiles is awed. “Wow… That’s a lot to live up to.”

“She’s a miracle, she can handle it.”

Something itches at Stiles. “It’s kinda funny. Your ancestor Christoff and his wife Valerie refounded your family, and now Chris and Victoria have brought girls back to your bloodline.”

Another, more genuine chuckle comes from the older man. “I suppose it is funny. History has an odd way of repeating itself like that. Anyway, I have to get to bed, and you probably don’t want to be hanging around with an old man like myself. I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be here.”

“Goodnight.” Chris says, and the younger boy echoes the word.

Later, Stiles wanders through the upstairs parlor and out to the a balcony on the roof of the coach gate. A half moon is blasting light from the west as it nears the horizon, and there’s a moonlit figure in a lounge chair. The short, messy black hair and ivory white skin make it obvious. Aiden.

Stiles swallows a lump from his throat, and takes a seat in the chair besides Aiden. The boy turns and smiles at Stiles in acknowledgement, but says nothing. Instead, he gazes up at the Milky Way Galaxy as a smear of color and light across the infinite void. The moon is still shining on them, and, in the light, Stiles is the same color as Aiden, the same black and white contrast.

“It’s just you and I. The last of them passed out about ten minutes ago.” Aiden speaks softly and smoothly.

“Good to know.” In comparison, Stiles’ voice is too rough and awkward for his liking. It makes him self-conscious, and he has no clue why.

“I like coming out here at night. It calms me.”

Stiles laughs quietly. “Why would you ever need calming? I’ve never seen you more than irked.”

Aiden gives a wry grin, and stands, leaning against the stone railing, and Stiles joins him. “I’m good at hiding it.”

The other man looks away from the stars, and trains his eyes on Stiles. Those golden orbs appraise him with affection and a flicker of desire, and Stiles can feel a blush climbing up his neck and into his cheeks, and, though the moon has leeched all the color from the world, he just _knows_ Aiden can see it, against all logic.

Then, before Stiles can even process it, Aiden’s face is inches from his, and hand is tracing his jawline, weaving a path of cold fire that stretches from the bottom of his ear to the point of his chin. “Is this okay?” Aiden asks, so quiet it might have been the wind. Stiles nods once.

There it is. Ice cold, unyielding lips pressed against his own. Stiles’ nose is filled with spearmint, and there are arms snaking around him, and the light of the moon shining through his left eyelid is the only thing keeping him grounded. It’s wonderful, and then there’s a tongue pressed against his lips, a request, which he obliges. Aiden tastes wonderful, and he’s holding Stiles with a strength his lean form wouldn’t imply.

They break for a moment, catching their breaths, and, suddenly, Stiles is overwhelmed by confusion. He thought the kiss would bring clarity, but it didn’t. It just brought more questions, more unanswered mysteries. Stiles can’t lie and say he doesn’t have feelings for Aiden, but he also has feelings for Derek, still. It’s two different sensations, and he can’t find a way to reconcile it all into a rational choice.

It isn’t until Aiden grabs him by the shoulders and forces him to look at him that Stiles realizes he’s started hyperventilating. “I… I don’t know…” Stiles trails, sounding winded even to himself. He’s edging onto a panic attack, and he knows it.

“Stiles, Stiles. Breathe. In, out, in, out. That’s it, deep breaths. What’s the matter?”

“This!” He whispers harshly. “I don’t know what this is, what I have with Derek is, I can’t tell anymore!”

Aiden looks surprisingly understanding. “It’s confusing, huh?” He asks with a wry grin.

Stiles swallows, calmed a bit. “You have no clue.”

Aiden levels a serious and understanding gaze on him. “I won’t expect an answer immediately. Figure it out, make sure you’re making the right choice. I’ll take whatever that decision is.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

Aiden smiles, and offers his hand to Stiles. They walk back into the house, hand in hand.

**+**

Roscoe pulls into the Hale’s driveway with his characteristic rumble, and Stiles isn’t surprised to see Derek waiting on the front porch for him, sitting on the swing that hangs from the ceiling. He canters up the steps, and takes a seat besides the other teen. Almost instantly, Derek tenses up, and Stiles can sense it.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, and Derek mutters something too quietly to be made out. “What?” Stiles reitterates.

“I can’t believe he got to you first…” Derek’s voice is one part disbelief, and another part anger.

Dread fills Stiles’ system in a moment, but how on Earth could Derek know? Had someone at the party seen them and told him?

“How did you…?” Stiles trails.

Derek stands with a frustrated growl. “I can smell him on you! You _reek_ like spearmint!” He spits the word ‘ _spearmint_ ’ like it’s the most vile insult he can think of.

“Derek!” Stiles grabs the fuming boy’s hand, and it’s burning hot. Almost feverish, just like always. “Yeah, he kissed me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings for you!”

“What?!” Stiles swears there’s a flash of gold in his eyes, but it must be a trick of the light.

“I still like you, and I like him, and it’s confusing as fuck! Okay?! I can’t figure out which I should choose or if I should choose neither of you or what! This is some fucked up love triangle, dude!”

Derek gives a harsh laugh. “You’re telling me.” He mutters, still bitter, but calmer. “It’s your decision, whatever it is. I’m just telling you, I’m not agreeing to a threesome.”

Stiles pulls Derek into a hug, and Derek fills with joy. He can erase the icy scent of spearmint from Stiles’ skin, replacing it with his own. “That’s a bit disappointing.” He mutters. “You sure we can’t negotiate that one?”

Derek gives a more genuine laugh this time, and holds Stiles out to look into his whiskey amber eyes. The other teen looks back into the kaleidoscopes that make up Derek’s irises, and suddenly, he’s the one pressing lips against Derek, and someone is growling, and another is being pinned against the wall. Derek picks Stiles up, and Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s hips. From there, it’s a frantic race to the finish, rutting against each other like animals, and it almost sounds like it, until Stiles breaks the kiss to keen, one long, pitched sound and he’s just ruined a perfectly good pair of boxers. Derek falls over the same edge seconds later.

“ _What_ was that?” Stiles asks, breathless and still supported by Derek.

“No idea. I just… I needed you, so badly.” Derek whispers back.

Thankfully, Stiles has his jeans from the previous day in his trunk, and the path to Derek’s room is, for once, blessedly clear of Hales. They change out of their soiled clothes and then Stiles is overwhelmed by exhaustion. He crawls into Derek’s bed, and pats the space beside him. Derek obliges, wrapping his arms around him, and letting Stiles rest his head on his chest. They drift off together like that.

Sometime later, Talia walks into the room, and, with a knowing smile, walks back out, letting her boys have their rest.

**+**

Stiles and Scott have just assumed their usual seat in the cafeteria, at a circular table, when none other than Lydia Martin walks up to them and sits immediately to Stiles’ right.

“Hey, Lids. Jackson being an ass again?” He asks her.

She huffs, and gives a harsh nod. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Scott snorts. “He’s been giving me Hell since second grade, I think I do.”

Lydia gives him a sympathizing look. “He’s obsessed with me, I wish he would just go away.”

Scott gives her a knowing look, to which she quickly jerks her head at Stiles and shakes her head, with a threatening glare.

“I saw that, you two. What was that?”

Lydia turns to Stiles, and smiles wistfully at him. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Stiles gives her a baleful stare, and returns to homework. As Scott and Lydia chatter idly, he finds himself staring off to look at Derek. The next time he looks down, he sees he’s just written all over the page.

“Oh, _fuck_!” He cries out.

Lydia turns to see his mistake, and gives him a mocking grin. “Nice job, dumbass. Now, gimme.” She says, taking the paper.

Lydia reaches into her bag and pulls out a curious white eraser, and runs it over the sheet. Suddenly, Stiles’ markings over his previous answers are gone, while leaving what he’d written earlier intact. With a satisfied grin, she hands the sheet back to Stiles, whose eyes pop when he sees his fuck up erased without a mark.

“How did you do that?” He asks wondrously.

“Ink eraser. Picks up freshly laid ink, leaves the dried stuff intact. It’s a life saver. Here, I have plenty.” She tosses the one in her hand to Stiles. “Enjoy.”

He gives her an immensely grateful look and resumes his homework, scribbling furiously. Scott stands to throw away his garbage and bends to whisper in Lydia’s ear.

“Gifting him a magical item is interfering, Lydia. What happened to his own conclusions?”

She whispers back. “I thought I’d be nice. Besides, it’s not obviously magical.”

Scott scowls. “You’re playing with fire.”

She shrugs, and goes back to finishing her meal.


	2. Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, part two. I apologize for nothing, but I will say that Kate does some really bad stuff so if that bothers you, be sure to skip over it. Enjoy!

**April**

How many times had Derek told him not to wander the woods? How many warnings of bears and coyotes and other animals had he gifted upon Stiles? How many times had Stiles really been listening? Well, now he was.

The full moon had drawn him out to the woods like a magnet to iron fillings, wandering instead to the north, where little but forest remains. And now he is left in shock, peering from behind a tree, where some form of dome edges just in front of it. Inside the dome is a roughly circular clearing, and twelve people stand there, the light of the full moon blasting the world into black and white. There’s a thirteenth figure, a wolf. Not just any wolf, either. A black beast standing the size of a Clydesdale, massive, with glowing gold eyes.

The two figures that Stiles recognize immediately are Scott and Melissa, but they’re perhaps the most shocking to see. They hover a few inches off the ground, and, at first glance, deep russet fire seems to sprout from their backs. A second glance reveals the fire is actually _wings_. The energy curls and shapes constantly, but holds a uniform wing shape. Their eyes glow with the same energy, and Melissa’s hair is pulled back into a ponytail, revealing two pointed ears.

Across from them are Alan Deaton and Lydia Martin, and they look no different, though they seem to be surrounded by some sort of runes. To their right are the Argents. They all seem themselves, except their eyes glow, bright neon versions of their own colors, their ears drawn to similar points as Scott and Melissa’s, their fingers end in claws, and two sets of fangs protrude from their gums.

Oddly enough, Isaac and Camden, totally unchanged, stood amongst the supernatural knot. Finally, and shockingly, next to the massive wolf, is Talia. Her eyes glow crimson, and Derek, at least, Stiles believes it’s Derek, stands next to her. His eyes glow the same gold as the wolf’s, and his eyebrows are gone. A burst of facial hair runs down both sides of his jaw, and he crouches, clawed hands tense.

Getting over the initial shock, Stiles remains on the opposite side of the barrier, and listens in.

“... The boy is in far too deep to be cut loose at this point.” Chris speaks.

“I agree.” Talia interjects. “But to crassly inform him of the truth could scare him off. He has to be dealt with delicately.”

Suddenly, Camden steps forward. “I just don’t see how he hasn’t reached the conclusion himself. I’ve literally walked through walls to enter a room, and flat out said ‘ _I’m a ghost’_ to him. How can he be so damn oblivious?”

“I mean, he is from California. He probably passes off all our oddities as small town quirkiness and nothing more.”

“Come on, Scott. You said it yourself. The enchanted eraser was a bit much. He could’ve googled it and figured out I was bullshitting him!” Lydia interrupts.

It’s like ice water is dumped into his veins. It’s him they’re discussing. Stiles Stilinski is at the subject of some clandestine supernatural Council of Elrond, and he’s suddenly he’s forced himself into the field, the barrier rippling with the sudden force of his entry.

Instantly, thirteen sets of eyes are on him, everyone assuming a defensive position until they realize who it is.

“Oh, God…” Talia says to herself.

Stiles is full of something, some terrible mix of anger and relief. “Don’t.” He says, raising a hand to silence her before she can even begin. “All of you?” He asks.

Deaton only nods.

“Well, what are you?’

Talia steps forward, hesitant. She gnaws her lip for a moment, but Derek beats her to it. “We’re werewolves. All of the Hales.” He says. He looks like he wants nothing more than to get closer, but he doesn’t dare.

Next, Victoria takes point. “Vampires. We don’t… eat people. We hunt animals.” She finishes somewhat lamely.

Melissa touches down, and lets her bare feet meet the earth. With each step, flowers spring up in her footprints. “Scott and I are what you’d call faeries. We prefer _Páistí na Crainn_. Children of the Trees.”

Stiles swallows, and takes a look at Isaac and Camden. “You’re ghosts then.”

Isaac nods.

“Deaton and I are witches. We set up the barrier you passed through.” Lydia says.

Stiles steels himself, taking a deep breath, and then addresses the group as a whole. “Just... give me time to process this. I’ll come to you guys.” And with that, he leaves.

**+**

Scott is the easiest to first approach. Stiles sits with him and Melissa in a set of wicker chairs on their porch, glasses of iced tea shared between them.

“So, what did that mean, what you said you guys prefer to be called?” He asks.

“ _Páistí na Crainn._ ” Melissa repeats. “It means Children of the Trees.”

“So, this whole nature set up, all the plants, is it because you need it?”

Scott snorts. “No. We could live in a city or desert just like any human could. We just like having greenery around.”

It brings Stiles up short, how easily he accepts the reality of what Scott and Melissa are. It brings clarity, understanding to some of Scott’s quirks, and it makes him feel a little better. The shock has worn off, and now he’s fallen into the exciting thrill of new information. He asks question after question, eager to learn fact from myth. Stiles watches in rapt fascination as Scott makes a spruce tree grow from the ground, a tiny sapling sprouting into a decades old mature adult in seconds.

“That… Is fucking epic, dude!” He’s overwhelmed by excitement.

Melissa clears her throat in that motherly way of hers, and speaks. “I gotta admit, Stiles, you’re taking this all in stride.”

His excited grin vanishes, and the moment becomes sobering. “It makes sense, I guess. A lot of things I never questioned before.”

“Unless you have any more questions, I think it’s time you talk to the others.” She says, gently. The unspoken hint about his relationship ambiguity is clear.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

**+**

He enters the Lahey home to find it empty, the lights off, no hint of anyone home. Just as suddenly, Isaac is there. He sits on the couch, and Camden appears in the chair kitty corner to it.

“Why don’t we tell you?” Camden gently suggests, gesturing to the unoccupied loveseat. Stiles nods, and takes a seat. “In 1916, Isaac and I were going to join the Army. We knew that soon enough, we would be joining the fight in World War I, and we wanted to fight for our country. It wasn’t gonna happen though.”

Isaac picks up the story. “Our father was a veteran of the Spanish-American War, and the fight turned him into a drunk. PTSD didn’t exist back then, not to doctors anyway. When we told him of our plans, he screamed at us. Our mother had been gone for three years, died of tuberculosis. He said he wouldn’t let his sons die for a line in the sand across an ocean. There wasn’t much he could do to stop us. Camden was nineteen, I was seventeen. The Army would take us. He went out and got drunk, drunker than he’d ever been. Then, he came home.” Isaac’s voice breaks off, choked.

Camden takes a deep breath, and resumes. “He grabbed the gun he used to scare off bears and wolves, and he shot me while I slept. Isaac woke up, and he hid in the closet. When our father found him, he begged for mercy. Instead, he got shot in the head. Then, he left and jumped off of the falls.” He forces back a sob, and wipes tears from his eyes. “We maintained the house as best as we could, but we’re ghosts, and kids, at that. Eventually, it was almost ready to collapse on itself.”

“In 1998, Deaton moved here, and found the house. He also found us. He bought the property, and fixed it up. Every week, he brings us groceries, pays our bills, makes sure we’re taken care of.” Isaac concludes, voice almost whisper quiet. “It’ll be a hundred years this November we’ve been dead.”

“H- How… How do you leave the house?” Stiles asks, his voice betraying the depths of his horror.

Camden answers him. “We can leave the day and night of the full moon, and on the solstices and equinoxes.”

“God, you guys…” He trails. “I’m so sorry.”

“Your great grandfather wasn’t even thought of back then. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Stiles leaves the house with ice in his veins.

**+**

Deaton sits him down and explains it simply, clinically. The way magic works, the tie-ins with the lunar cycle and the seasons, all of it. Lydia is there, too, providing commentary when she feels appropriate. It’s almost like being in school for Stiles, and, finally, Deaton breaches the topic of how Stiles was able to peer past the barrier, how he naturally sought out the supernatural, unknowing as he was.

“I believe you’re what’s referred to as ‘Sighted’. Those of us who practice magic are Gifted, but those who can see magic and its effects without any control over it are known as Sighted. You can peer past enchantments, and resist hexes and curses, to a degree, but you’ve got no real magical ability.”

“So, this… Sight? Is it genetic?” He asks.

Deaton nods. “To a degree. Most people possess a slight disposition towards Sight. That sixth sense people feel, deja vu and whatnot. It’s rare that someone with true Sight emerges. It takes a great deal of chance and luck to get the sort of ability to perceive magic that you have. If you were to breed with another person with Sight like yours, I imagine you could likely produce a properly Gifted child.”

“There’s also the chance that you’re a Spark.” Lydia interjects.

Stiles is confused. “What’s a Spark?”

Deaton shakes his head, half exasperated, half amused. “Sparks are a long dead line of witches. They were said to be just as powerful as standard witches, but born of non-magical bloodlines. The last Spark died over four hundred years ago.”

“How would I know if I were a Spark?”

Lydia speaks again. “You’d have your magical ability present itself spontaneously. It could also be suppressed.” She gives a pointed look to Deaton, who sighs, raising his hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine. I’ll test him.” He says. “Do you mind, you don’t have to do anything, just sit there.”

Stiles nods, now curious.

“Ἑκάτη, ἀμμά δη Ἔφεσο, διακαλύπτω τεός δόμα σε εμά.” Deaton says, waving some form of charm over Stiles. It floats on its own for a moment, and then falls, striking the floor with a clatter.

“What does that mean?” He asks.

Deaton shakes his head. “You’re not a Spark. You just have the Sight.”

Stiles shrugs. “Oh, well.”

**+**

It’s hard to suppress the shudder that runs through Stiles when he pulls Roscoe to a stop in front of the Argent house. The structure was imposing enough, but, now that he knows a family of vampires inhabit it, the feeling grows even heavier.

Apparently, the Argents have given up pretense, as they are waiting in the foyer for Stiles, though he’d not called or texted to alert them of his coming presence. It’s the first time in nearly a week that he’s seen Aiden, and relief, colored only slightly by fear, sprints down his spine at the sight of the boy sitting anxiously at the bottom of the staircase.

Chris is the first to speak. “You must have a great deal of questions.” He says.

Stiles nods. “The man in the portrait, Christoff. It’s you, isn’t it?”

He nods. “It’s easier than you think. We’re already reclusive. After Christoff, it was Lucas. Then John, then Michael, then Gerard, and now, Chris. For Victoria, it was the same way.”

Swallowing a lump, Stiles turns to Aiden. “How old are you, really?”

Aiden looks at him, hurt and understanding reflected in his honey eyes. “Sixteen. I was born in 2000.”

“How?”

Victoria interjects. “I can bear children. For a long time, I couldn’t. In 1841, I had a child. The birth was long and complicated, and left me infertile. The baby was a stillborn. In 2000, I underwent a medical procedure to fix some scar tissue in the uterine lining, and Chris impregnated me with Allison and Aiden.”

Stiles nods. “Are you immortal?” He queries.

Allison takes her turn. “No. We can average around five hundred years, but appearances can’t tell you much. We have limited shape shifting abilities. Hair, eyes, age, and facial features, to an extent. We age normally from birth until the completion of puberty, and then slowly age.”

Aiden seems to know the next question, as he springs to answer it before it has left Stiles’ tongue. “We can eat, and enjoy doing so, but we still need blood. Animals are a good, humane substitute.”

“What really happened to your family during the dysentery outbreak?” Stiles asks, voice softening slightly. He’s getting comfortable, for some reason. He even takes a seat on a couch.

Chris hesitates to answer. “Not… all of our family subscribed to our way of thinking. Most of them still drank human blood. I tried to convince them that they couldn’t afford to be conspicuous in such a small town, but, when the outbreak came, they saw an opportunity for free blood.” He pauses, voice tight. “Our immune systems are strong. Stronger than yours many times over. However, they are not totally effective. AIDS, Ebola, plague, powerful diseases can still affect us. This strain of dysentery was particularly nasty, and, when my relatives drank infected blood, they rapidly became sick. They died shortly after.”

Stiles sits, feeling pity for Chris and Victoria. Two centuries later, they still grieve the loss like it was fresh. He manages to summon the next question after blinking back tears. “Can you turn people?”

Allison nods. “Vampiric venom is agonizing. One bitten vampire told me it felt like every part of his being was being cut open with a knife simultaneously. The time depends on circumstances, but sits around two or three days.”

Stiles can’t suppress the shudder of that. Three days of constant, whole body agony? No thank you. “Thank you. Aiden?” He questions. The boy stands, and, in the blink of an eye, has crossed the room to Stiles’ side when he motions for him to follow.

They walk out into a rare day of welcome sunshine. Aiden’s pale skin reflects the light, so bright it’s almost painful to look at him, but he doesn’t burst into flame. He just stands there, looking pale. They walk further along the half circle driveway, and Stiles hesitantly takes one icy hand into his own. Eventually, Aiden speaks again.

“Do you trust me?” The sound comes out soft as a whisper. Stiles nods.

Instantly, the world is thrown into a blur. Aiden has his hand supporting his head, and Stiles is able to focus as he’s being carried through the forest at speeds unimaginable. Perhaps thirty seconds later, he’s being gently set down on a rock outcropping, and he blinks. Stiles looks out over Moonlight Bay, the sun still peaking in the sky. People are visible as colorful moving dots on the beach, and boats dot the body of water. It hits him that he’s just cut through two miles of forest in seconds, and now is looking from the cliffs over the bay.

“I… I don’t know why I care for you so much, but I do. I want this, I want us. For as long as I can have it, even if it’s only for a short human lifespan. I’ll be happy to take that.” Aiden confesses, not looking at him.

Stiles hesitates. “How could you stand it? Watching me age, grow weak and feeble? Watching me die while you’re cursed to another four or five centuries of life without me?”

Aiden turns, gently cupping his face. “I don’t know, but I could.”

“You’re certain?”

“I am.”

It’s a long, lonely walk back to the Argent manor.

**+**

**May**

To compare, Stiles' experience with the Hales is warm and fuzzy. He pulls up, and immediately finds Kita, the youngest of the Hale girls, bounding down the steps, and Stiles is suddenly swamped by a surprisingly heavy twelve year old. “I missed you, man!” She crows in delight. “With all this crap about what happened, I thought the king of self-repression had scared you off!”

Stiles busts out laughing. “Is that any way to talk about your big cousin?” He manages to squeeze in between chortles.

Kita rolls her eyes with all the skill that only a tweenage girl possesses. “You know it’s true, Stilinski.”

He raises his hands. “I plead the fifth.”

From the porch, another voice calls. “Stiles.”

Talia Hale, in a pair of grey corduroys and a maroon sweater, leans against one of the columns holding the roof of the porch up. She smiles her usual cocky, crooked grin at him, and then is coming the down the steps with her arms wide open. Stiles easily walks in the fever warmth of the hug, and the scent of cinnamon and pine fills his nostrils in a near-violent burst. Warmth settles deep into his chest and suddenly, he’s home, being whisked into the Hale house, and people are waving and saying they missed him, and he’s at the kitchen table.

The only person absent is Derek.

“He’s still shook up about it.” Talia expertly reads him. Stiles nods, and they begin.

Talia and Laura sit the table in the kitchen and talk, slowly, about what it all means. The lunar cycles, the biological ranking system, the enhanced senses and strength, and, most fascinatingly of all, the full shift. Laura and Talia have no issue demonstrating the partial, or beta shift, but the full shift requires a great deal of effort and concentration outside of the full moon. The two women explain that the size of the wolf depends on age and pack standing, that the alpha is always the largest wolf, though Talia leaves Stiles guessing as to how large her wolf actually is. At the end of the half hour spent discussing everything, there is one question rattling around in Stiles’ head, and he tenuously fields it.

“So, a few weeks back, when I came over after spending the night at the Argents…?” He trails, uncertain how to phrase it.

Laura lets loose a wicked peal of delighted laughter. “You bet your ass we heard and smelled everything, Stilinski!”

“ _Fuck!_ ” He whispers harshly to himself. “Uh… sorry?”

At that, even Talia breaks composure, loosing a full bellied laugh in her soothing alto. After she recovers, she turns to Stiles and levels a maternal gaze on him. “Go talk to him. He needs to hear it from you.”

He wordlessly leaves the table, and walks up the stairwell to the second story of the house, and finds Derek’s room. He gives a single knock on the dark oak of the door, and is pushing his way in. The scent of leather and smoke and some unnamed but sweet spice fills Stiles’ nostrils on the first inhale, and there Derek is, sitting on the bed.

He looks ancient. The stubble is grown out on his cheeks, his eyes are worn under bags, and Stiles half expects that the hair he normally spikes up, now resting flatly on his forehead, to be sprinkled with grey. It’s not, thank God, but his eyes, those deep whirlpools of so many colors, are a flat grey. As soon as Derek’s eyes flick up to meet Stiles’, they instantly light up. Years seem to peel off from him as he sits up higher, his eyes go wider, and the color returns to them.

“Goddammit, get over here you, big lug.” Stiles softly demands, even as he stalks across the room to meet Derek halfway.

The kiss is desperate, the hands are wandering and groping, but it goes no further than that. When the two boys break apart they each see the same thing in the other’s face. Swollen lips, a high flush across the cheeks, mussed hair and pupils blowing their irises to rings of color tracing twin black holes.

Stiles hesitates to speak. “I think… I’ve made up my mind.” He says. “I want this, werewolf or no.”

Derek grins, a wide, innocent and undeniably _delighted_ expression, and easily picks Stiles up, spinning him around and bringing him to rest on his bed. There, Derek gathers the human in his arms and delightedly nuzzles into the crux of his neck and shoulder, lying there, embedding his scent deep into Stiles’ skin, so all the world will know, beyond any doubt, that Stiles is his, and he is Stiles’.

“Woah, easy there, big guy.” Stiles chuckles good-naturedly. “We’ve got plenty of time for scent marking.”

The idea leaves Derek’s mouth even before it is fully formed. “I want you to spend the full moon with us this Saturday. You won’t be in any danger, I promise.” He rushes to add when he hears Stiles’ heart pick up in fear.

The teen opposite Derek gives a moment’s consideration, and then nods, once, in consent.

“You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

**+**

Roscoe faithfully coughs his way into the Hales’ driveway at sunset that Saturday, about five minutes prior to moonrise. Stiles has an overnight bag packed, and, per Derek’s instruction, is wearing something comfortable and easy to move in, in this case, a pair of cargo shorts and a white tee shirt a few years old, along with one of his countless pairs of Chucks. It’s exciting, knowing he’ll get to see the Hales as they truly are. He lets himself tweak with excitement for a moment, and then steels himself, walking up the porch and forgoing knocking, as they all doubtlessly are aware of his presence.

In the room Stiles has dubbed the couch room, Peter sits watching, and Alexander is curled up beside him, using his head as a pillow. “You’re not going out tonight?” Stiles asks, confused.

“Nope. My turn to stay in with the little one. Gwen and I switch every other moon.” Peter returns, stroking the toddler’s mop of brown hair. “Go have fun. I think you’re gonna enjoy it a lot.”

Stiles nods in appreciation. “Thanks, Peter.” And with that, he sets his bag on a chair in the kitchen and crosses out the sliding door to the backyard.

The Hales all stand there, waiting for him to arrive, in fucking towels. Just towels. Nothing else.

“Oh-ho-ho-kay…” Stiles says, trying to avert his eyes anywhere but the pack of almost naked werewolves.

Cora snorts, and walks over, whacking Stiles upside the head, and pointedly ignore Derek’s warning growl. “You’ll understand in a minute, Stiles. Now quit being a prude.” She orders, and then returns to where she stood earlier.

Talia looks to the east, where the moon has just finished clearing the trees and her demeanor changes the moment she locks eyes on it. “It’s time.” She says with a smug grin, her eyes flashing bright red.

It’s instant. One moment, the Hales are all there, the next, eight horse sized wolves fill their spots, the towels still settling on the ground from when they were thrown off during the shift.

Stiles should be unable to focus on anything, but, he finds himself stuck staring at Talia. When he’d seen Laura in the field that night a month prior, he thought he would never see a larger wolf. Boy, was he wrong. Talia is jet black, and easily more than nine feet tall. Her softball-sized eyes are ruby red, and, tail included, Stiles guesses she must be twenty five feet long. Evan, the next closest wolf in size, is dwarfed by her.

Derek walks over, golden eyes in a puppydog stare, and bunts his head against Stiles, nearly knocking him over with the force of it. The wolves in the yard make chuffing noises he very much suspects are laughter, and he allows himself a moment of humiliation before giving way to curiosity. Stiles threads his fingers through the inky fur on Derek, and, half-jokingly, starts to scratch behind his ears.

Derek leans into the touch, and, deciding to play along, begins kicking his leg against the yard. A moment later, he bounds several feet away, and lowers himself to the ground in a clear invitation.

Stiles goes slack-jawed in awe. “You want me to ride you?” He asks, voice tiny and shocked. The massive wolf head nods in response.

Carefully as he can, Stiles uses the fur to climb up the side of Derek’s enormous form, and settles just behind his head. The wolves all take point behind Talia, and sprint into the woods, and _holy fucking shit_ this is amazing. The moon is filtering through the trees, taking all the color from the world, and, though the terrain is rough and jagged, Derek moves over it with such grace and fluidity that it’s like flying more than running.

The wolves have come down into a culvert filled by moonlight, and they’re suddenly wrestling. Talia, too large to be any sort of fair fight, seems to be reffing, growling and nipping at someone who gets a little too excited or oversteps some boundary. It’s like watch a group of puppies play. Derek settles on a rock outcrop overlooking the pit and Stiles slips off, instead settling against his side and relaxing, watching with delight as the Hales go at one another, never crossing the line into a true fight, but still sparring in the own, massive-wolfy way.

After perhaps two hours at the pit, Talia gives another howl, a deeper, longer baying, and then Derek is gently nudging against him, urging Stiles to get back onto him, and they’re off again. After a near hour ride, they arrive at the edge of a wide bay. City lights twinkle across on the other side, and Stiles realizes, with delight, that they’ve reached Young’s Bay. Across the other side is the state of Washington.

It’s a beautiful sight, Astoria glittering on the water, the moon throwing the city into stark relief against the night, and Stiles, after ensuring none of the wolves are in his line of sight, takes a photo, and promptly uploads it to Instagram. The Hales stay, playing for a few moments, and, when he looks up, he realizes the moon has passed zenith. It must be almost one in the morning, and he worries about getting back before dawn.

Stiles rapidly clambers back up onto Derek’s back, and Derek, apparently sensing his worry, takes off like a shot, going so fast that the world is reduced to a blur of black and white. The ride isn’t as smooth as the one leading up, but it is still quite comfortable, and, soon, they’re overlooking Moonlight Falls from the north. Another five minutes, and they’ve reached the Hale manor. Derek stands as close to the porch as he can, being the size of a very large horse, and thrusts his head up several times towards what Stiles sees is Derek’s open window.

Standing as gently as he dares, Stiles manages to use Derek as a springboard up onto the roof of the porch, apologizing when his foot slips and takes out a clump of fur with a sharp whine coming from Derek. Suddenly, the huge black wolf bounds to the edge of the yard and starts dead sprinting towards the house. In a display of grace and elegance to make an Olympic gymnast green with envy, Derek jumps, shifting back to human form midair and somehow finding time to do a _triple_ somersault before landing on his feet beside him.

Stiles is too busy trying to process the grace and beauty of that leap that he doesn’t see what’s right in front of him, until he does. Derek, stark naked, body thrown into relief by the moon. Derek, who is naked and hard. Oh.

_Oh._

**+**

The sun is baking Stiles’ face, and there’s birdsong filling his ear. More than that, there is a fever hot body pressed flush to his own, miles and miles of skin mingling with his. A thin sheet covers his own nude form, and he’s got a mild pain tugging at the edge of his consciousness. He opens his eyes, and promptly regrets doing so. Stiles is immediately blinded by the sun in all its assholishness, so he naturally spins to hide his face from their planet’s dick of a host star, and he bangs his head against something very solid, and very warm.

Somewhere, outside his realm of blindness and eye pain, the body below him stirs. Derek. As his retinas recover from their barbecue, the night’s events come back to Stiles. Derek, all over him, hands roaming and lips meeting. Him, pressed flat against the mattress, letting Derek press and claim and take him until he had nothing left to give. Words uttered, both filthy and beautiful, the sudden and violent climax set upon them both, Derek actually fucking knotting him, something he thought was a myth subject to bad werewolf porn and Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics fan fiction. Hey, he reads those for the story, dammit.

“Morning.” Derek murmurs, bending his head down to kiss his hairline.

Stiles opens his eyes back up, and his heart clenches at the sight before. Derek is there, hair sticking in every direction, his eyes illuminated by the sun, glittering jewels of not quite blue. ‘ _Beautiful’_ doesn’t even cover it.

“Good morning.” Stiles whispers back. He sits up, and, _oh, motherfucker, that hurts_. His ass is almost screaming in pain, and Stiles can’t suppress a whimper. Derek is there, scooping him into his arms, and he’s barely raised his voice, but he’s calling for Talia, and then she’s there, and Stiles is grateful there’s a sheet hiding his shame. Her hand is at his lower back, and then, inexplicably, the pain from his rear is gone, siphoned out, and Stiles sees black veins tracing their way up Talia’s arm, and he realizes she is taking his pain, and the loose, almost used feeling is leaving his most tender parts. He’s healing, rapidly, and it’s incredible.

After a moment of recovery, Talia gives a pointed look to Derek. “Be more gentle with him next time. Also, it’s time for you two to get up, I made pancakes.”

Stiles is out of bed so quickly he nearly forgets clothes.

+

The next week, back at school, Aiden sweeps Stiles into an empty classroom, and puts a finger to his lips when he goes to speak.

“Shh. I know, and I’m happy for you. I think… it’s better this way. I just wanted to, you know, give you guys my blessing, I guess?”

Stiles sweeps Aiden in for a tight hug, ignoring the smarting feeling of knocking his head against concrete. “Thank you.” He says, voice deep and sincere.

“No problem. Besides, there’s a cute vampire from a coven a few hours east that’s kinda flirting with me.” Aiden chuckles.

Stiles looks him over for any sign of dishonesty, and, seeing none, nods once. “I hope it works for you.”

“Thank you.”

They leave the classroom, and Derek is there, arms crossed and a less than pleased look on his face. Aiden squares his shoulders, and looks him directly in the eye.

“Be good to him.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

**+**

**June**

Things are good, for a solid month.

Really good, in fact. Derek and the Sheriff have proper introductions, they all sit down for dinner at the Hales’, and Stiles finally meets Aiden’s new thing, a dark haired immortal named Danny with dimples and a jawline to cut marble with. After scrutinous review, he declares Danny acceptable, and they promptly head out for ice cream on a somewhat tense double date made less tense as Danny grows a bit handsy with Aiden, lowering Derek’s protective instinct a few notches.

When not sucking face with Derek or being roped into shopping with Lydia and Allison, he’s at Scott’s, either gaming or watching Scott pull of Faerie tricks, ranging from a full bloom of bright, rainbow petaled daffodils to seriously enormous, seriously deadly vegetation, poisonous, thorny vines that wrap tightly around their prey and either stab them to death or poison them with a neurotoxin.

It feels like, for a brief moment, this whole supernatural thing could work out. He has lessons with Deaton, revealing the true history of the world, the wide and beautiful variety of creatures unknown to man, a reality he couldn’t before imagine, but, now that he knows of it, he can’t imagine the world without it.

Then the Strawberry Moon, a rare combination of the summer solstice and full moon, happens.

+

Stiles is on his bed, reading a news article on the travesty of a national election the country is going through, when, suddenly, Aiden is there, golden eyes glowing and claws drawn out, tapping against his window.

“Stiles, we need to go, now!” He says, voice muffled by the glass.

“Aiden, what the Hell is going on?!” Stiles demands.

The vampire runs a hand through his hair in frustration, and sighs. “I’ll explain when we get there. Just, get on my back and hold on. It’s an emergency.”

Stiles nods, awkwardly climbing onto the slightly shorter teen’s back, and they’re off like a shot, Aiden leaping over rooftops so gently and so quickly they make no sound, and, once clear of the town, they weave through the woods, coming to a stop on the Hales’ front porch, where a loud argument is occurring in the kitchen.

“… I don’t care if they were family, you should’ve destroyed them! At the very least you could have _told us!_ ” Evan is hollering at someone.

Chris’ voice responds. “Oh, yes, why don’t you murder your catatonic relatives, Hale?!” He snarks.

“Enough!” Deaton hollers. “Chris, you’ve put everything at risk. The whole veil of secrecy on our world could be ripped off in a bloody massacre.” He continues, voice more level.

Stiles and Aiden walk in, and Derek and Laura are rushing over, pulling the human into a hug. “Thank God you’re alright.” Derek whispers, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck.

It’s an odd council meeting, similar to the one two months prior. The Argents stand on one side of the room, the Hales on the other. Deaton and Lydia are in the middle, a book of runes open on the kitchen table.

“Hey, I’m fine. What’s happening, big guy?” He asks, confused. Derek gives a pointed look to Chris, who seems abashed.

“Our relatives… didn’t die from the dysentery. The fever cooked their brains, left them either catatonic or mad. We kept them in cells, fed them over the centuries. They were our family, what could we do?”

“Stay on topic, love.” Victoria urges him.

“Right. When we were feeding them this evening, two of them, my father, Gerard, and my sister, Katherine, they were catatonic. Allison forgot to close their cell door and they escaped, letting loose everyone who was maddened. We barely made it from the house alive. Once they’d gotten cleaned up, Kate burned the house down.” Chris points out of the window, where a column of smoke rises from the general direction of the Argent manor.

Stiles stands from the seat he’d taken, ignoring the chair falling to the ground. “So there’s how many insane vampires running around the woods?!” He demands.

Aiden swallows a lump. “Fourteen.” He whispers.

“ _Fourteen?!_ ”

Just as Victoria moves to speak, there’s a shriek, and a pale, rag-dressed figure leaps from the trees. Just as suddenly, it stops, frozen in midair, blue energy rippling all around. The figure is emaciated and bald, pale skin waxy. Its ears draw to points, and its eyes glow burning red, like Talia’s, only wilder. The two sets of canines, both top and bottom, are long and wickedly sharp. Its hooked fingers are tipped with black claws that stand out, glinting in the moonlight.

“ _Bastien_.” Chris whimpers.

The mad vampire contorts, its face stuck in a soundless scream, and fire consumes the animal, because, that’s what it is, an animal. As much as it pains them all to admit it, any semblance of reason evaporated in the fire of a disease centuries ago. These are dangerous animals that need to be put down. A pile of ash rests on the Hale yard, directly beneath where the creature floated.

The two witches in the room finish whatever incantation they were muttering, their spell lost as the room focused on the creature that would have attacked them.

“Make that thirteen.” Lydia darkly mutters.

“Stiles, you, Cora, Kita, Derek, Alexander and Gwen have to stay here. We need to be able to protect you all.” Peter says. “The magical barriers will keep you safe, and Gwen and Derek are more than capable of taking on an irrational vampire. We’re going out to hunt them.”

“What if you’re hurt?” Stiles demands. “What if you need them and someone gets killed?!”

Talia marches over, and seizes Stiles by the shoulder. “No one is getting killed tonight. We just want you safe.” She says, trying to calm him.

“What about my dad?” He whimpers, face planting against her collarbone.

“He’s conveniently being called a few towns over. He’ll be fine.” She assured him. “It’ll be over before the night is out.”

“Okay.”

+

They’ve all clustered in the living room, and Alexander’s crib is pulled from downstairs, so everyone is close by. There’s a periodic phone call, but, otherwise, they try to act like everyone in the town isn’t in horrible, horrible danger.

Cora and Kita talk about whatever, Gwen keeps a constant eye on her son, and Derek refuses to let go of Stiles. They try watching TV, playing video games, anything to distract themselves. Eventually, somewhere around eleven, as the moon shines through the windows, they all drift off.

A shriek wakes Stiles. The living room is empty, spare Alexander, who still sleeps in his crib. Derek’s comforting warmth is missing, and the girls are nowhere to be found. Another shriek, followed by a begging scream. _Cora!_ Stiles rushes from the living room, slamming the screen door wide and sprinting past the barrier protecting the house without second thought.

It’s the worst mistake of his life.

+

He wakes again, this time, slowly, a pain throbbing through his head like a jackhammer against his left temple. Stiles realizes he’s been tied to a tree when he feels the scrape of bark against his arms. As soon as his vision stops swimming, he manages to focus on the woman before him.

She’s beautiful, undeniably so. Her skin is alabaster in the moonlight, and her lengthy, blonde hair rests past her shoulders. The wide, almost childish eyes in her porcelain face glow silver, and two sets of canines are framed by her pink lips that are curled into a wicked smile. Of course, she’s dressed in a blue evening gown that probably cost more than Roscoe did. Damn vampires and their expensive style of dress.

“Good morning, my lovely.” She says, voice thick with a French accent. “Do you know who I am?”

Stiles searches through his foggy memories of the conversation in the kitchen. “Katherine Argent.” He says, voice thick from disuse.

Katherine chuckles. “Clever boy. I would guess you do not know why I’ve got you tied here, do you?”

“To torture and kill me?” Stiles sarcastically hazards a guess.

The vampire lets loose a series of giggles. “Oh, such wonderful self-deprecation. However, my dear, I have you here because the mutt you impugned yourself upon, along with my traitorous brother, killed my father, and my siblings. It was enough, at first, to simply burn down that mansion of treason, even with the deaths of my family. It is rather difficult to control a feral vampire, you know? But, then, Christoff went and committed patricide, and I can’t let that slide. Even if I can’t have my revenge on them all, I can certainly use you as a focus for my aggression.” Her voice is a purr as she glides fluidly against him, and she flashes a wicked set of claws.

Stiles gulps, and closes his eyes, bracing for the worst. Instead, there’s a sound of rope shredding, and, suddenly, he’s stumbling, falling flat to his face and eating a lovely mix of dirt and pine needles. Argent hauls him to his feet, and, with surprising gentleness, steadies him, wiping the dirt off of his face.

“You have thirty seconds. _Run_.” Her voice is whisper soft.

Stiles zig-zags through the trees, knowing it’s hopeless and that she’ll easily be on him the moment his thirty seconds are up, but he still runs. Hopeless or not, Stiles still has survival instincts. He’s not going to lay down and die. He’s just going to die running.

There’s a break in the woods ahead, perhaps the town, perhaps not. Either way, at least he’ll see the sky one last time before he’s brutally murders. Stiles runs, forgoing his zig-zag for a dead sprint through the trees and he bursts into, of all places, the clearing where he’d learned the truth those months ago. Stiles loses count, but, only a moment later, he’s flying through the air.

The impact is surprising, even though he’d known it was happening and, oh, so that’s what a broken arm is like. Stiles also suspects that there’s a greenstick fracture on a few of his ribs and possibly a bruised lung. All in all, a pretty solid start to the fun.

Katherine is there again, this time, giving Stiles a kick to his gut that sends the contents of his stomach up even as he pinwheels across the field. Now, there’s no doubt that he’s broken most, if not all of his ribs. She’s then picking him up, sweetly cradling him, and, oh, God.

Stiles’ pelvis crunches into countless pieces in her stone hands. The noises he’s made, harsh, jagged breaths and the wretch of bile and vomit, pale in comparison to the utter roar of agony that forces its way up his throat. Eventually, the scream is cut off as blood force its way up his throat, and, he can’t even feel anything but the pain in his middle as she again tosses him, this time, into a tree. The crunches, pops and snaps of his bones play like a symphony, and, in his next shriek, Stiles feels the capillaries burst in his eyes from the sheer force of his scream.

Then, of all people, Derek shows up.

He’s instantly gone from his beta shift to the wolf, and he begins a death-charge at Katherine, snarling and howling and making sounds that, even in his agonized state, run a chill down Stiles’ broken spine. Derek leaps mid air, and the woman jumps to meet him. She has the height on him, and uses one foot to slam Derek to the ground, and, from nearly twenty feet away and over the rush of blood in his head, Stiles can hear the bones break, as well as the pitiful whine Derek gives, lying and twitching in the moonlight.

He manages to belt out a howl, a long, lonely cry of agony, and Katherine is leaning down to pick up Stiles again, pressing her lips gently to his wrist, for some odd reason, and depositing him gruffly next to Derek.

“There, you can die next to your precious mongrel. See, I’m not a total monster.” She chuckles to herself.

It’s only then that she realizes she’s too late.

The blue energy of a containment spell rushes around the field, and, amazingly, Lydia stands, her eyes glowing with that same energy. “Εκάτη, απαγορεύουν το πέρασμα αυτό το τέρας!” She cries out in Greek.

Argent makes a go for Lydia, but, she makes it only feet before the earth itself turns against her. The ground rocks, becomes full of faults and deformations, and opens wide in cracks. At the same time, huge green tendrils, with ridiculously long thorns, spring up to block her path. Scott and Melissa, russet wings spread wide, hover over the field. Wolves gather at the edge of the clearing, growling and licking their chops with eagerness. The Argents watch from a point behind Lydia. Alone, still dressed, Talia stands.

“You hurt my sons.” Her voice so full of rage it’s more growl than language.

Instantly, the alpha wolf, a beast the size of an orca whale, is bounding across the field, dwarfing Katherine, who charges, knowing it’s futile. Like Stiles, she is determined to die on her feet.

The duel between vampire and werewolf lasts longer than anyone watching expected. Katherine, even in her ridiculous dress, and even with her tiny size, is a skilled fighter. She punches at Talia, breaking ribs and knocking out teeth that grow back just as quickly, and, she even manages to hurl the enormous wolf some feet away. Eventually, Talia’s massive jaws catch the better of her, and Katherine Argent goes down, head torn from her body.

Watching this, even aware that he is dying, Stiles hasn’t noticed an odd, almost tingling sensation, like his arm is asleep, curling its way up the limb that Katherine had kissed. It’s not the worst sensation, and, he supposes, compared to his shattered pelvis, it’s almost nice.

Then the sensation reaches his heart.

It’s like he’s being gouged with a knife, no, a million knives. A knife for every cell in his arm and spreading through his chest. Stiles is too weak to do more than gasp, even as everyone rushes to him and Derek. It’s Aiden that reaches Stiles first, and, instantly, his eyes are to his wrist, where two perfect crescents mark Katherine Argent’s bite.

“Oh, _fuck_.” He breathes out.

+

By the time they’ve reached the Hale house, Stiles has recovered enough to start shrieking again. The pain is incomparable. There is no greater agony experienced by anyone ever than what he is experiencing in this moment.

It’s almost as though he can feel the venom destroying and remaking the trillions of cells in his body, each little microscopic piece of him being sliced apart with knives and then remade into stone in place of flesh. All Stiles can do is scream. Scream, beg, plead, whatever, just something, anything, to end it. Death is looking better every second. He’s placed to rest in Derek’s bed, and he lays there, all through the night, shrieking.

All he knows is agony. Every movement of his body brings a shooting agony greater than the surrounding pain from the moving part to his brain, and, in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the pain, he traces the path of this pain, focussing on the route it takes, mapping each neuron as it fires and carries on the message with each thrash of his body.

It doesn’t work. He learns the exact path a signal carries from each part of his body to his brain, all for nothing.

Stiles screams on.

+

It feels like years have passed, certainly days have, and Stiles still isn’t done. He knows, somehow, his body is healed, though. He no longer feels his ribs push against his lungs with each breath, and he legs no longer sit at a twisted angle due to his broken pelvis. He still hasn’t stopped screaming. One would think, after days of doing it, he would have screamed himself mute. One would think wrong.

Stiles has stopped begging for death. In his delirium, he no longer feels alive. This is Hell, he’s convinced himself. He did die, and now, he gets an eternity of agony, lying in Derek’s bed, listening to the distant sounds of Derek’s voice grow more and more frantic.

Eventually, the pain changes. It doesn’t go away, no, that would be a blessing, it just… becomes more in-depth. His body starts to change now, shifting away from healing, and the true transformation starts. The agony carries for another day.

**+**

Further into his eternal torment, Stiles has finally stopped screaming. The agony has left him stunned, left him unable to move or talk or scream. Instead, he lays there, eyes closed, breathing, in, out, in out, listening to the sounds around him. Derek’s heart, a constant, jackrabbit fast pace. The muffled voices through the floor and walls, his own heart, now beating oddly, almost like a heart murmur.

As the pain continues, the senses get clearer. Where as before Stiles had to focus to hear anything outside of the room, now, he can’t not hear anything. Of the voices that come and go, Talia’s and, incredibly his father’s, are the most common. Deaton and Lydia are frequent visitors, but they have some matter to attend to. The other Hales come and go, as do the Argents, and some others. It’s an odd sensation, hearing it all as clearly as though he is right there, even through walls and floors and doors and his own heartbeat. Stiles sets his discomfort aside as the pain, not yet done with him, kicks up.

It’s worse than ever. Stiles is almost tempted to start screaming again, but he can’t. He can’t even tense up, can’t even take a deeper breath. The pain has him so paralyzed all he can do is feel himself be destroyed as his heart, already lightning fast, becomes so quick it’s almost like a hummingbird drilling against his ribs.

“Mom!” Derek calls.

From the couch room, Talia speaks. “John, you need to go outside.”

“What?! No, he’s my son!” Stiles’ father speaks in outrage. “I will be here for him!”

“I admire your fatherly way, but Stiles is, first and foremost, a vampire, and a new one at that. If he catches your scent in an enclosed space, he will kill you. You need to leave.” Talia’s voice remains level.

The thought of killing his father makes Stiles’ agonized stomach flip, and he’s glad to hear his father walk outside, pacing the lawn. He can only focus for a few moments before the agony somehow, _again_ , kicks up. The pain before is nothing to this, and Stiles has no outlet, and he ruminates on the unfairness of it all, when, without any warning, it stops.

He’s shocked. One moment, eternal torment, the next, nothing. There’s a sound missing, something key, and it takes Stiles a second to figure it out. His heart’s stopped beating. He’s a vampire now. Tenuously, he opens his eyes.

**+**

Derek hears Stiles’ heart stop, and, a moment later, his mother and Chris Argent are in the room. Stiles lays there, unmoving, unbreathing, and then, his whiskey eyes are wide, staring up at the ceiling.

Almost like he’s uncertain, Stiles moves, and starts to breathe, gasping in wonder, his eyes as round as the moon in shock.

“D- Derek?” He asks, and seems brought up short by his own voice, now so much more musical and elegant.

In truth, Stiles hasn’t changed much. He’s just more squared off. The baby fat on his cheeks is replaced with respectably cut cheek bones, his jaw is squared off more, and his shoulders are more in tune with the rest of him, no longer too broad. He’s as pale as the Argents, and, thankfully, his skin is still dotted by moles.

“Stiles.” Derek breathes, vampire be damned, and pulls the other boy into a tight hug.

It’s like squeezing a marble statue, and it makes Derek sad, makes him miss the soft, warm skin he’d made sure he knew so well. That’s when Chris interrupts.

“I understand you’re relieved he’s alright, but we need to get him to Deaton. He says he may be able to help Stiles.”

Uneasily, Stiles rises from the bed, and upon finding his balance more than optimal, he starts striding down the staircase towards the door, when Talia grabs his arm. As an icy vampire, her skin is gone from fever hot to an almost open flame.

“Your father is outside. I need you to hold your breath until we get to the car, okay? We can’t risk you hurting him.” She asks, and Stiles nods. He wants his father safe.

Outside, John maintains a wary eye and a good distance, but he still almost seems ready to weep upon seeing his son alive.

“I’m glad you’re safe, son. And as soon as you’re able, we’re going to have a very long talk!” His voice shifts to a paternal tone.

Stiles nods, and smiles once at his father, who smiles back.

The car ride is filled with Stiles marveling at everything in its clarity that his new eyes have bestowed upon him. At the brick structure housing the vet’s office, he’s distracted by the bricks, seeing their texture clearly for the first time, and winds up walking and tripping over the gate leading in. His improved instincts mean that he’s able to turn his accident into a graceful flip, one that leaves everyone hanging slack-jawed.

Inside, Deaton and Lydia stand close, inspecting a flower unlike anything the newcomers have seen. It’s a type of Iris, with all white leaves and stem, and is perfectly symmetrical. The eight petals are jet black, spare a single white stripe rising upwards, and the stamen are golden. Three ornate ceramic bowls are filled with a silver liquid nearby.

“Ah, Stiles!” Deaton says upon seeing him. Immediately, the newborn immortal holds his breath, drawing a chuckle from Deaton and Lydia. “That’s much appreciated, but not necessary. Magic hides our scents, you’re fine.”

Stiles exhales, and carefully approaches the delicate looking flower. “What is it?”

“ _Iris thantosi._ Death’s Iris. A rare flower that takes nearly a decade to cultivate, and that produces only one seed. When used in proper magic, it can restore the dead to the land of the living.”

Stiles audibly gasps. “You mean, Isaac and Camden?” He asks, a tremor in his voice.

“And you, hopefully. There’s no record of Ambrosia being used on a vampire, so it’s all new to me.” Lydia inputs.

Deaton crouches by the plant, and, delicately, plucks a single petal. Instantly, the thing shrivels and becomes brittle and weak, curling like it’s been dead for weeks. Deaton sets it down to float in one of the bowls, and makes his palm grow covered in blue flame. After hovering his burning hand over the solution, he pulls away, revealing the dried petal gone and the silver fluid turned gold.

“Ambrosia, made at last.” Even Deaton has awe in his voice.

Stiles turns to the witch/veterinarian. “What’s in it?”

“Gorgon blood and the petal of Death’s Iris heated by divine flame.”

Stiles deadpans. “You’re giving a vampire the blood of a monster to drink.”

“Exactly!” Lydia chirps.

Stiles takes the bowl from Deaton and raises it to his lips, and takes a small sip. It’s heaven, it’s an orgasm, it’s unimaginable pleasure and he’s chugging the thing, not letting a drop go to waste, and, suddenly, the world is dim again, and his heart is beating. Stiles doesn’t notice though, not until the last drop is gone and he’s set the bowl down, and everyone is looking at him with wonder.

In a nearby mirror, Stiles looks more like himself, his color has returned to his skin, and some of the baby fat chased away by the venom has returned, and, most importantly, he feels like himself.

It’s wonderful.

**+**

At the Lahey house, Deaton does the same thing twice, making the same elixir. Camden and Isaac raise their glasses with a solitary ‘ _Cheers_ ’, and drink. Their reaction is the same as Stiles’ was to the Ambrosia, undeniable please. The changes aren’t as obvious as they were with Stiles, but it’s clear, it worked. The group walks outside, to the edge of the property that has restricted the two brothers for a century. Isaac and Camden take each other’s hands, and stand at the end of the driveway.

“Ready, little brother?”

“Ready.” Together, they step onto the road.

They stay there for a good long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to this dare gone awry. I love it, a lot, and I hope you did to. Sorry to the A/B/O folks for the little potshot, it was done with love, I promise. Anyway, drop a review of my painfully obvious Twilight parody and yell at me about how trash I am.

**Author's Note:**

> I did stick by the parameters of the dare. Moonlight Falls is a town in The Sims 3: Supernatural, and I spent way more time on the Sims wiki than I should have researching the damn town. Drop a review if you liked it! They fuel me!


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